The Annals: An Irregular Series
by Double Dog
Summary: Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?Something very different from my usual stories an AU, historical fic.Hope folks give it a chance.
1. Chapter 1

_Serva Me, Servabo Te  
Save Me, And I Will Save You_

It was a warm, dry evening and the Roman Army encampment was settling in for the night.

All the usual sounds of soldiers on the move filled the air; the low hum of conversation, cookpots clanking, the soft whir of a spinning grindstone. Horses shuffled, their tack jingling and leather creaking as saddles and bridles were removed. Little clouds of steam rose from their backs; already the nights were growing cooler on the plains of Hispania.

The Army surgeon ignored it all as he stared down at the patient lying on the rough-hewn table, then back up at the young, dark-haired slave who stood quietly between the two soldiers. The bright torchlight cast odd shadows in the large tent and flickered on burnished armor. The patient, a fat man who wore the toga of a Roman citizen, tossed and turned as the physician's drugs took hold. The surgeon watched him, a critical glint in his eye; the sick man's face held a turbulent mix of boundless anger and cruelty. The Roman doctor had seen that look before, but right now there was a deeper mystery afoot. The patient's puzzle was solved; it was the slave who interested him now.

"Your master might've died if you hadn't brought him here. His eagerness for the new forest mushrooms would have been his undoing."

The slave was silent; his steady gaze was fixed on the dirt floor. It was the safest course ... for a slave.

The surgeon took three oddly-gaited steps, bringing him nearer the slave; deliberately leaning in too close, he curled his free hand into a fist. The younger man flinched back, his left shoulder instinctively rising as if to lessen the force of a blow. The Roman's eyes narrowed; it was as he had suspected. He'd seen the signs when the torchlight fell directly on the slave's face -- a nose that had been broken more than once, a ragged scar beneath the right eye; even the smooth trace of a burn on the side of the neck, above the ugly iron collar. Separately, they meant nothing, but taken together, the evidence was indisputable.

"He beats you." It was a statement that didn't require an answer, not that the slave could've given one without a direct order. "He beats you, and burns you, and yet you save him." The surgeon's thoughts quickened; this was a cipher and his mind seized upon the challenge of decoding it.

The Roman's head cocked to one side, and the other man risked a quick glance up.

Eyes bluer than the Adriatic stared into his, and the slave swallowed hard and ducked his head. _Celt or Germanic blood, perhaps from Britannia, but a Roman nonetheless._

"Why?"

_A beating is coming, a whipping ..._

The Roman reached out and gripped his chin, tilting his head back up. "Why?" he repeated.

The trapped slave weighed all the possibilities and found no escape.

"I ... was a healer. In my own country. Before." The words came out in a mumble, but the Roman surgeon heard.

"Before?"

The younger man sighed. "Before you Romans came."

The surgeon stood a moment, then smiled. The expression was frightening. He let go of the other man's jaw and dropped his hands to his sides.

"Yes," he admitted. "Many people were ... many things, before us." His eyes were thoughtful. "A slave, yet you remain true to your medical oath, as if it mattered now. If you're truly a healer ..." With a sudden movement, he lifted his robe from his right leg. "What's this, then? Name the parts."

The slave stared, frozen. The thigh wound was at least a year old, but the scar tissue was still dramatically red and angry. For the first time, he saw the hardwood staff in the surgeon's hand. _He must be in pain, all the time ..._

He looked back up at the Roman. The man's gaze was fixed on his.

"The ... quadriceps," the younger man began hesitantly. "The sartorius, the gracilis, the adductor longus ..."

"Name the muscles of the quadriceps."

The slave took a deep breath. _Something depends on this. What?_

"Vastus lateralis," he said. "Vastus medialis, vastus intermedius, rectus femoris."

The two men stared at each other.

"All torn apart by a Scythian lance," the Roman said at last. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he'd just announced that birds flew or rain fell down.

Lowering the robe, he turned away. "What's your name?"

The slave stole a glimpse at the fat man, who was rousing and looking around with rising comprehension. _He will live, _the slave thought, _and my life will go on as before. _A long-dormant anger, silent for so long, stirred, and he fiercely thrust it away.

"Hyacinthus, my lord."

The tall Roman's head snapped around, and he raked a calculating stare over the younger man's body. The slave was almost as tall as himself, slender and dark-haired with clear, hawk-brown eyes. Those eyes that now met his, guarded and cautious.

_Slave,_ the Roman thought,_ but the spark not yet dead._

"Hyacinthus," he repeated. "That's not even close to being true."

The slave blinked. "It is the name my master gave me," he said.

The surgeon sighed. "Fine. We'll do it your way." He looked again at the patient, who stared back, confused. "He'll live," he said to the two attendants. "Get him out of my tent." The man's mouth dropped open as the surgeon's aides grasped the stretcher handles at each end, preparing to lift. _A fat carp, landed and gasping for air,_ the surgeon thought. "My slave ..." the patient spluttered.

"Stays here," the Roman surgeon replied. "You will receive the requisite papers shortly."

"But ..."

"Citizen." The surgeon's voice was flat and without emotion, yet the temperature in the medical tent seemed to have dropped twenty degrees. "Will you deny Rome?" The question hung in the air.

"No," the patient said at last. "My compensation ..."

"Will be commensurate," the surgeon answered, and gestured for the man to be taken away. For a few minutes, the only sound in the tent was that of the torches, spitting and crackling with flame.

"Well?"

"Uh ..." The slave's mind was still on the previous conversation. _What just happened? What compensation?_

"Name!" the Roman barked. "What was your name ... before?"

"James." The voice was quiet, resigned. "I was James."

A look of surprise crossed the surgeon's face. "A Greek name. I was told you were Judean."

"My parents were Greek, my lord. I was born in Judea."

The Roman nodded. "You are a Jew," he said decisively.

The faintest hint of a smile twitched at the younger man's mouth. The surgeon saw it and raised a curious eyebrow. "Speak," he commanded. "Are you not a Jew?"

"Some of my co-religionists would say not, my lord." The slave was discomfited, and looked at the ground again.

"Yes, well, that's for your squabbling tribes to decide."

The surgeon lifted a dismissive hand, and the slave allowed himself to relax just a bit. _Done here, _he thought, _back to the master's quarters and sleep._

"Gaius!"

Another man stepped forward; a scribe. He handed paper and a reed pen to the surgeon.

The Roman wrote something quickly and pointed outside, and the scribe bowed and left the tent. The surgeon turned next to the soldiers behind James and waved them away.

The two men were alone in the tent.

James watched the Roman warily, every nerve ending awake and on edge. The surgeon was tall and lean, those piercing blue eyes set above cheeks rough with a two-day growth of scruffy beard. His weight was distributed unevenly, and the slave carefully allowed his gaze to drift down. The man leaned hard on his staff, its strength bearing him up. _An eagle with a broken wing,_ he thought suddenly, _but still he aches to fly ... _The Roman stretched and rubbed his eyes, then fixed his gaze on the slave.

"James," he said, rolling the name on his tongue in the Latin fashion. "I am Gregorius."

The younger man stared.

"You're a healer, and I'm in need of an assistant. The last one seems to have ... run away." The surgeon stabbed at the ground with his staff, the dark wood gleaming in the torchlight. "You've been requisitioned, for the good of Rome. Your former owner will be fairly compensated, as if you would have any reason to care." The Roman's unblinking eyes held him locked in place. "I'm your new master."

It was quickly clear that the Roman surgeon had his own ideas of the propriety of the master-slave relationship. Dinner was served to the two men in the tent, apart from the others.

The goat stew was good, thick with broth and wild onions, washed down with a sour local wine. It was the most substantial food James had had in too long a time, and he barely managed not to stuff the whole small loaf of country bread into his mouth at once. Still, he couldn't stop himself from gulping down the meat and gravy like a wolf as he ate in the corner, balancing the wooden bowl on his crossed knees. The carved wooden spoon was soon discarded in favor of the bread as a sop and scoop, and the stew was quickly gone. He felt the Roman's eyes on him throughout the meal, and somehow it came as no surprise afterwards that he saw his own rough bed was inside the tent, a few feet away from the surgeon's own cot.

The Roman gestured vaguely at the blankets on the floor. "Sleep," he said. "Or not, as you wish." He shuffled over to the small traveling-desk at the foot of his cot, and sat down heavily, using the bed as a chair. Picking up and carefully unrolling one of the many scrolls scattered across the desktop, he glanced over at James.

The slave was standing, a baffled look on his face, unsure what to do. This wasn't normal; he was used to being ordered about, and leaping to obey.

The surgeon sighed. "Come here," he said. James was beside him, instantly, and the Roman turned his attention back to the illustrations on the scroll.

"Look," he murmured, and indicated one of the beautifully-etched anatomical pictures. "A new representation of the human heart ..."

James bent closer to see, and the surgeon suddenly turned to him. Their faces were a fingers-breadth from one another.

"You _can_ read, can't you?"

The flush of anger and shame that flickered across the slave's face lasted only a second, and then the younger man was studying the ground again.

"Yes, my lord. Latin, Greek, and Aramaic."

The Roman snorted. "Not much use for Aramaic here." He watched as the slave eyed the other scrolls haphazardly strewn about. There was a hunger in the younger man's expression, but not for food.

The slave looked back up, shyly.

"Greek. Latin. The languages of the _civilized_ world." His tone was level, answering the unasked question. "Lusitanian, Sanskrit, Gaulish. A little of the Germanic tribes, and I learned Anglish with my mother's milk. A barbarous tongue."

He turned back to the medical illustrations. "You will teach me to speak your Aramaic. Now, look here at this one, how the vena cava is shown ..."

The two men bent low over the scroll, poring over the fine details, heads close together in the lamplight.

It was the unmistakable sounds of pain that awoke him in the night. James squinted against the dark, trying to focus. The sounds came again; the surgeon was obviously attempting to stifle them, but to no avail. The slave threw his blankets aside and stood up.

"Master?"

There was a muffled curse. "Go back to sleep, James." The statement was punctuated by a sharply indrawn breath, and in a few steps James was by the surgeon's side, looking down.

The man had tossed his own coverings to one side and was holding his right thigh with both hands, attempting to rub out a terrible cramp. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face drawn with a desperate agony.

"Master, I ..." James reached out with one hand.

The eyes snapped open, pinning the slave where he stood.

_"Do not touch me,"_ the Roman ground out. The two men stared at each other, and James wavered.

To disobey a direct order was death, and yet ... James dropped to his knees beside the cot, head bowed in submission.

"My lord, I know a ... therapy. Of touch. I think ... I believe it would help."

He could feel the surgeon's eyes on him, hear the man's rasping breaths.

"The only thing that has helped in the past is the milk of the poppy," the Roman said at last. "But you may try."

The slave let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and was on his feet, dipping the fingers of his left hand into the small lamp at the head of the cot. He knelt back down, rubbing the lamp-oil between his hands to warm it, and then carefully touched the surgeon's right knee.

The man flinched, and James began to very gently stroke the muscles above the knee, as if soothing a panicked horse. Gradually he moved his hands higher, kneading the flesh, using the heels of his palms to stretch and calm the knotted thigh muscles. The oil allowed his hands to glide over the ruined area where the Scythian lance had ripped apart muscle and tissue alike. He fell into a slow rhythm, the lessons of his Greek physiotherapy tutors coming back to him.

He could feel the cramp ebbing away beneath his fingers, but he continued to stroke and soothe the long muscles. _Quadriceps extensor, adductor brevis, adductor magnus ... _The Roman's breathing eased and for a moment James thought the man to be asleep, until the surgeon's right hand suddenly covered his own. The younger man froze.

"Enough," the Roman said softly. "It is better." The ocean-blue eyes held the slave's for a long moment. "Go back to bed."

The next morning, James watched without emotion as the flat iron cuff was fitted to his left wrist; the blacksmith seated the locking pin home with a single tap of the hammer. He already knew what legend it bore; the Roman surgeon had showed it to him before it was put on. His name, his master's name, the single word: SERVUS. Slave. The stamp of the Roman eagle over all.

He stepped back, waiting for the order to go, but to his surprise the surgeon shook his head. _Not finished yet._

"Down," the blacksmith said, and James stood, baffled. "Down!" the soot-streaked man repeated, pointing to the anvil. The slave touched the iron collar around his neck and looked at the Roman. The surgeon looked back, and nodded.

As if in a dream, James knelt by the anvil and laid his neck across it. The blacksmith leaned down, positioning the chisel, and suddenly the surgeon was beside him, murmuring something in his ear. The smith frowned. "I know my job, _Medicus_," he growled, using the excessively formal title. The surgeon grinned.

The hammer went up. James remembered the day the collar had gone on, how he'd fought and kicked as the Roman soldiers held him down. It was a wonder they hadn't just speared him and been done with it, but someone had already identified him as a healer and his life had been spared. The hammer came down, twice, the cold chisel knocking against the blunt metal, and the collar was off.

He lifted his head. The smith picked up the iron band and tossed it onto the scrap metal pile. It would have another life now, as a packet of nails, a bundle of keys, or perhaps even a horseshoe for another working animal.

James stood. His legs were a little shaky, and the surgeon took his elbow to steady him. After a moment they began walking together through the camp, the younger man automatically adjusting his stride to the Roman's canted gait. The surgeon had made it abundantly clear he wanted James at his side earlier that morning, when he'd turned to speak to him and found the slave three steps behind, as a slave should be. The Roman had glared in exasperation, striking the ground with his staff.

"Get up here!" he'd commanded, but James had just stood there, puzzled again by the surgeon's strange behavior.

"But ... I'm your ..."

"Slave," the Roman interrupted. "Yes. I know that. Thank you for stating the obvious. You are also my _assistant_, and as such I need you next to me, so you can _assist._" The surgeon's tone had grown biting and sarcastic, and the blue eyes were cold and hard as flint. "Now get up here before I start regretting my impulsive purchase."

James had stuck close to the older man ever since.

Now he touched the back of his neck, feeling the roughened skin where the collar had rubbed. The surgeon glanced at him, raising a quizzical eyebrow in an invitation to speak.

"What did you say to him, my lord?"

"I told him not to hurt you," the Roman replied quietly, and James stopped, shocked to the core. The surgeon stopped also, and looked at him. "My mother wore the collar. The day it came off, the blacksmith's chisel slipped. Her neck was cut; she bears the scar to this day."

He turned away and started walking again, the staff aiding his limping pace. James stared for a moment, then hurried after him. It was apparently all the explanation he would get.

The camp was moving.

Tents were coming down, collapsed into bundles and packed onto mules and wagons. The centurion, a short man named Longinus, was shouting orders; his lieutenants overseeing every detail to get the army group moving. No one seemed very concerned; they had been in this place for a month, now they were going somewhere else. It was the Army way.

James had spent much of that month being tested by the Roman surgeon. He'd pretended not to notice; the surgeon had pretended not to notice his not noticing. It had worked out well for both men. He had fetched and carried, compounded drugs and herbal medicinals, set simple breaks and fractures, and even been allowed to study the newest physicians' texts on his own. It was there he'd found the clue to diagnose one of their own soldier's illnesses, and had coughed and cleared his throat until the Roman had finally told him to speak up or choke to death, whichever came first.

"It's there -- the inhalation of the tiny fibers. The lungs turn to stone, my lord."

The surgeon had looked over James's shoulder, taking another bite out of his culinary creation -- a slab of roasted meat tucked between two slices of bread. The crumbs dropped onto James's tunic and down his back; the younger man rolled his eyes, first making sure the Roman's eyes were on the scroll spread out before them.

After a long silence, the surgeon had nodded. "And the man is Cypriot," he said.

"His family worked in the mines, my lord."

The Roman gave him a measuring glance. "You're right," he said. "Send for the scribe and start the paperwork. Pension him off and send him home to die."

The surgeon took a last bite of his impromptu meal and was gone. The slave shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

The medical tent was ready to go; only a matted-down, scuffed-dirt square indicated where it had been. James tied the last knot in one of the packs and looked around.

"Ready?" the surgeon asked, and the slave jumped. The Roman had the uncanny ability to constantly surprise him, coming up behind him silently.

"Your mount," the older man said, and pointed with his staff at a roan pony, already saddled and bridled. James stared. It was unheard of for a slave to ride ...

The Roman was paying no attention, limping towards his own horse, and James moved forward to get a closer look.

The surgeons's horse was a chestnut mare, fitted with a modified cavalry saddle. The right front pommel had been sawed off so the man's thigh wouldn't jar against it, and the leather gathered up and sewn smooth. It wasn't that unusual -- what caught his attention was a contrivance hanging down from the left side of the saddle.

It was a short length of tanned leather, with what seemed to be a leather-wrapped metal ring at the end, large enough for a man's foot to fit through.

The Roman saw him looking and smiled, but it was without humor. "A little something of my own devising -- there won't always be a mounting block available," he said, and proceeded to demonstrate the purpose of the strange apparatus.

Using his staff, he pushed the block that was already there away, and turned to face his horse, grasping the left pommel with his left hand and the far right pommel at the back of the saddle with his right. He readied himself, took a deep breath, and quickly fitted his left foot into the leather-wrapped ring. In a single swift move, pushing off strongly with the left leg, he was up and over, easing himself onto the horse's broad back. He looked down at James and smiled again; a genuine grin this time. He slotted his oaken staff into the two loops sewn into the saddleback, and said, "I don't like riding in the wagons. Can't see far enough."

The slave shook his head in reluctant admiration and pulled himself onto his own pony.

It was only when they were finally moving, the long, creaking, jingling line of soldiers, wagons, pack animals, camp followers, and goatherds crossing the Hispanic plain, did James think to ask the obvious question. He looked at the Roman, who nodded permission.

"Where are we going, my lord?"

The Roman surgeon considered the question, then shrugged.

"Don't know," he said. "Wherever it is, it'll be someplace different. New things to see; new things to learn. As long as you keep moving, you're alive." He twisted in his saddle, looking at the younger man. His eyes were bright and intensely curious. "Now, a lesson. Teach me to count to ten ... in Aramaic."

James, startled, was silent for a moment. Then something seemed to loosen in his chest, and he raised one finger.

_"Eh'ad,"_ he began.

(Not) The End


	2. Chapter 2

_Fide mihi, et reddam fidem.  
Trust in me, and I will return the same._

It was raining. It was cold. James's head hurt, and although that wasn't related to the first two circumstances, it didn't make it any less painful. The roan pony shifted under him and blew out a noisy, whuffling snort. He watched as the warm breath condensed in the chilly air.

He glanced over at the Roman, hunched over on his own chestnut mare. The surgeon was wearing his helmet, something he rarely did, to try and keep his head at least a little dry. The shorn horsehair crest was dyed a vibrant red, and combined with the Roman's height and woolen cloak, his appearance was that of a gawky, red-crowned bird with a gray back.

The surgeon felt James's eyes on him and looked around.

"What?" His voice was low and held an unmistakably grumpy tone.

The slave shook his head slightly, and the two men continued to watch as the workmen slipped and stumbled in the icy mud, trying to get the medical tent up. No one seemed to know how long they'd be here. Word from the ranks was they were waiting for another cohort of the Legion II Augustus to join them, but no official confirmation had been forthcoming. James knew the surgeon hadn't bothered asking the centurion Longinus -- the man was only interested in the nature of a place, not why he was there.

James shivered a little, wrapped in his own cloak. The centurion had found them this morning, before it had started to rain. The short, red-haired officer had warned the surgeon to be prepared for anything -- this far north, there were brigands in the woods, beyond the usual reach of Roman justice and Roman law. Brigands who had never accepted the invaders. They were out there, watching. Waiting.

The rain fell harder, dripping in rivulets down the men's backs and the flanks of the horses.

James hated Britannia.

It had taken them two months to get here, winding upward from Hispania, through the mountains, and across Gaul. It was a virtual retracing of the path the cohort had taken coming south, the surgeon told James. They'd been detached from the Legion in Britannia, delegated to escort a group of rich merchants and politicians back to their estates in Hispania. Of course, a large portion of confiscated British treasures had gone with them. It was the way of the world, and James wondered sometimes at the chain of coincidence and happenstance that had led to his change of ownership. He never thought about it very long -- that too was the way of the world.

He knew the Roman had been studying him all this time -- more than once James had looked around to find the surgeon's glance quickly sliding away. The Roman had been talking to him more, too; questions about his medical training, observations on James's technique for examining patients, and lately, an odd little habit of beginning quotes and seeing if James could finish them.

The first time it had happened, the slave had been truly startled. He'd been concentrating on getting a dose of white willow bark reduced to exactly the right consistency, when the Roman's voice had suddenly boomed in his right ear --

"_Diaulus, recently a physician,  
Has set up now as a mortician_."

James had jumped. He knew the humorous little epigram; it was by Martial, and he automatically supplied the last line:

"_No change, though, in the clients' condition._"

He looked around at the surgeon, who simply nodded and turned away to his own tasks. James sighed softly and regarded the powdered willow bark. It needed more pounding.

Since then the Roman had taken every opportunity to test James (for that was what the slave perceived it to be), coming up with quotes from the philosophers, poetry and plays James hadn't read in years. He found his mind beginning to sharpen again, throwing off the stifling blanket of slave-thought.

Still, as surprising as the quotes had been, the surgeon's next step caught him completely off-guard.

It was early evening -- Longinus had been hunting that day and brought down a deer. The centurion had shared it out amongst his friends, so dinner was venison stew, bread, and a sour local wine. It was after James had cleared away the bowls that the Roman had turned to him.

"Let's play a game," he said. "Do you know _Latrunculi_?"

James had simply stood for a moment, trying to process the question. "Of ... course, my lord." _I used to play it with my older brother. I beat him every time._

The surgeon was already taking a box from the nearby desk and opening it. Reaching in, he lifted out the _Latrunculi_ board and laid it on the table, then upended the box and dumped out the small black and white polished pebbles that were the game pieces.

"Set them up," he said, and the game began.

James played conservatively, not taking chances, passing up opportunities. The first match was a draw, both men feeling each other out; the next two the surgeon won by small enough margins that he wouldn't be suspicious.

Except he _was_ suspicious, and the slave knew it. The Roman's eyes narrowed as he moved to replace the small pieces on the board.

"James." He leaned forward, and the slave flinched back just a little, instinctively. The surgeon saw it and stopped, laying his hands, palms down, on the table. "Stop letting me win," he said.

James swallowed. "My lord?"

"Stop letting me win," the Roman repeated. "Longinus beats me at Latrunculi, and while he may be my friend, he's a dunderhead at games." He caught and held James's gaze. "I want to get better at this game, and I can't do that unless you play honestly." Picking up one of the small black discs from his side of the board, the surgeon nodded. "Let's play again," he said.

James sat for a moment before moving one of his own white chips forward. It was dangerous, but if this was what the Roman wanted, then he had no choice.

The slave won that match, and the match after that, but by the time the board was finally put away, the surgeon had won two games on his own and was smiling.

"That's better," he said, and looked at James appraisingly. "To bed now, I think."

The older man fell asleep quickly that night, and was already snoring slightly as the slave doused the lamps and wrapped himself in his own blankets. On the verge of sleep himself, James thought again what a different sort of Roman this man seemed to be.

A few nights later, the Roman surprised him again.

"Here," the surgeon said. "Let's try a new game." He used his staff to point in the general direction of his cot. "There's a wooden chest under there. Fetch it."

James crossed to the bed, and dropping into a crouch, felt around underneath. His outstretched fingers touched wood, then a rough handle, and he pulled the box out into the torchlight.

He brought it to the table, and set it down. It was an ordinary wooden chest, one that looked to have seen a lot of travel. The Roman fished a small key from his tunic, unlocked the box, and lifted out a small cloth-wrapped bundle tied with a leather thong. Motioning for James to sit again, the surgeon laid the bundle on the table and undid the tie. He spread apart the cloth folds to reveal the contents.

Nestled in the cloth were small rectangular pieces of vellum. They appeared to be ... cards. The slave glanced up, surprised. While he had heard of games played with such things, the places those games were played were far beyond the reaches of Empire. Had the Roman been as far East as the boundless steppes of Asia? The surgeon's smile gave nothing away, and James looked more closely at the cards. They had been stiffened with a thin coat of varnish to make them both sturdy and pliable, and had little pictures drawn on them. The Roman grinned.

"Behold my less than expert artisanship," he said, fanning the cards out on the table.

James stared. The surgeon was far too modest; the artwork was quite good. The lines were clean and strong, and some of the cards had been decorated with tiny dabs of painted color. Studying the small pieces of vellum, he soon began to detect a pattern.

The faces of most of the cards were divided horizontally; the bottom half bearing a number from II to X, the top half a tiny illustration. Some of the cards had crossed swords, others a spade like the ones the Roman infantrymen carried. And still others --

"It's something of my own devising," the Roman said. "It's played with 52 cards -- the players draw five each, and with the way the cards are numbered and categorized, there are many ways to win." He smiled, and there was both shyness and a proud delight in it. "I've been testing it out on the blacksmith, the cook's assistant, and the laundry boy. It seems to be a good game, but --"

The surgeon fell silent, and James tensed. "I'd like to know what you think," he finished softly.

James continued to study the outspread cards as he tried to gather his thoughts. It was making sense now -- the watching, the subtle probing, the testing of James's education. James had watched and listened to the soldiers in the Cohort -- the men were taught the simplest rudiments of reading, writing, and basic arithmetic. The engineers were more well-educated, as was the centurion Longinus, but they were all military men, first and foremost. James could not imagine anyone else in the camp besides the surgeon reading Martial, much less Ovid, Sappho, Euripides ...

_The Roman may find satisfaction in his life as an Army surgeon,_ James thought, _but his is an exceptional intellect, always inquiring, bursting with curiosity ... and he has no one to talk to. Until now._

Keeping his voice light and his tone casual, James reached forward and pulled out five of the cards -- a II, III, IV, V, and VI, all with a matching triangle pattern at the top. "Then, my lord, in the system you've designed, this would be a winning draw?"

The surgeon looked at the cards, then at James. Something seemed to spark in his blue eyes, and he nodded.

"A straight run of corners," he said, indicating the triangle design. Leaning forward, he began pulling out different cards, explaining his self-invented rules, the patterns and possible draws, and how certain cards outranked the others. "And there can be betting!" the Roman exclaimed, gathering the black and white chips still left on the table from the previous match of Latrunculi.

The card game went on far into the night. James picked up the rules quickly. With all the possible permutations, the game was both fascinating and challenging. It had been frightening at first to bet against the Roman, but the surgeon had encouraged him. After a while they had simply been two men playing a game, the torchlight flickering on the tent walls and the only sound that of soft conversation.

Much later James would wonder if it had been that night that the first small seed of trust had been sown between them, in a new game marked by bluff and deception.

It had been a long day, and an unfortunate one from a medical viewpoint. The surgeon and the slave had lost two patients -- a cavalry officer, kicked in the head by his own horse, and a three-year-old boy, the son of one of the camp followers. The child had stepped on something rusty; a bit of sharp flake from a cookpot, or even a horseshoe nail, and had developed the lockjaw fever. There was nothing anyone could do, and James had looked on as the Roman had gently covered the dead child's face with a blanket.

Here in the foothills the ground was still soft enough to dig, and the soldier and the boy were buried that same day. The Roman ordered James to take the cavalry officer's name to Longinus, to be entered into the Cohort's records. The boy, James knew, would be forgotten to Rome, if indeed the mother had even reported the birth. It was a doubtful proposition -- children were as common as puppies in the small population that trailed after every Army group everywhere; legally, they were invisible to the eyes of the Empire.

No more was said. There was nothing more to say.

The surgeon was uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the afternoon. By evening he was leaning heavily on his staff, and once dinner was over James knew the Roman needed something for the pain.

"White willow bark or the milk of the poppy, my lord?" he asked softly. The surgeon looked up, surprised. He'd been staring out the tent flaps, watching as the Army unit settled down and readied itself for the night.

"Just a tea of bark tonight, I think," he replied, and James nodded, moving to prepare the willow tea.

The Roman was tired, and it was soon after the surgeon had finished his tea that James was tucking him into bed, pulling the fur coverlets up about the surgeon's shoulders. The older man sighed, and James, thinking the Roman would sleep now, stepped quietly away.

"James."

The slave stopped.

"Read to me for a while," the surgeon said.

James blinked. "My lord?" he asked uncertainly. The Roman's eyes were closed.

"Do you know Martial's _Epithet_?"

James turned his head carefully away. He knew the verse well -- a sad remembrance for another dead child. His own father had recited it, after saying _Kaddish_ for James's baby sister Phoebe, dead at two of an unknown fever. James's mother had been inconsolable for weeks afterward, and he briefly wondered if there was another weeping mother out beyond the soldiers' campfires tonight.

_Here in premature gloom Erotion rests whose sixth winter now will last forever._

The surgeon's voice was soft and steady, and James closed his eyes briefly. The Roman had stopped, and after a moment James picked up the rest of the poem.

_Whoever tends this small field after me,  
pay each year homage to her slender ghost:  
then you will prosper here and never weep, except this stone bring her to memory._

Torchlight played against the tent walls, the pitch crackling and spitting. The Roman was staring at the ceiling. "There should have been something," he murmured. "There _are_ answers. We just have to find them." He shook his head and lay quietly for a time, the slave watching him.

"Read to me," he said again, and James nodded.

"What do you wish to hear, my lord?" he asked.

The surgeon shook his head. "You pick something," he said.

James thought for a moment, then moved towards the case of stacked scrolls. He had to look through several before he found what he wanted, but at last he seated himself next to the Roman's cot, and unrolling the scroll, cleared his throat and began to read.

_Migratory birds -- cranes, geese, or long-necked swans -  
Are gathering in a meadow in Asia  
Where the river Caystrius branches out in streams.  
For a while they fly in random patterns  
For the pure joy of using their wings,  
But then with a single cry they start to land,  
One line of birds settling in front of another  
Until the whole meadow is a carpet of sound._

After a while the surgeon turned his head and looked quizzically at James. The slave stopped reading, and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"The Second Book of the _Iliad_. Are you both healer and play-actor?" the Roman asked. At James's puzzled look, he continued. "Your voice -- it is well-suited to reading."

James shifted on the low stool. To tell or not? _Might as well_, he thought. _I have a feeling this Roman will find out anyway_.

"In my youth," he said quietly, "I wanted to be a traveling play-actor." He smiled wryly at the memory. "It seemed a fine life, a way to see the world outside my own Judean town." The surgeon was watching him, a keen interest in his eyes. James hesitated.

"And?" the surgeon prompted.

James rested the scroll in his lap and lifted in hands in the universal gesture of helplessness. The iron cuff on his left wrist seemed to absorb the darkness in the tent.

"My father," he said. "He wanted me to continue the family tradition of healing. My older brother was already studying for the rabbinate, and my younger brother had no head for learning, so that left me." With a sinking feeling, James suddeny realized there hadn't been a single "my lord" in his entire explanation.

The surgeon didn't seem to have noticed. Instead he rolled his head back against his rough pillow and nodded as if to himself. His right hand was rubbing at his ruined thigh, and James wondered if he needed more tea.

"We've both followed our father's wishes, then," he said. His voice was low and thoughtful. "And look where it's gotten us." He was silent for a moment, then waved a hand in James's general direction. "Read," he commanded, and James took up the scroll again, reading (a little more softly this time), until the surgeon had fallen asleep.

The Pyrenees had towered above them like giants rising from the plain, and as the cohort slowly trundled their way north the Roman surgeon had noticed James eyeing the massive heights.

"Never seen mountains before?" he asked, idly flicking at his chestnut mare's ear with a long grass stalk. The horse's ear twitched, and he hid his smile as the slave straightened a little in his own saddle.

"I've seen mountains, my lord," James replied.

There was a short silence.

"Just not ones with white caps," he finally admitted, and at this the Roman turned to look at him.

"That's called snow."

The slave's face grew pink. "I know that, my lord," he said softly. "I've just never seen it."

The surgeon turned away. "You'll see enough of it here to last you a lifetime," he said, his voice gruff. "We're taking the high pass through the mountains." He kicked his horse lightly in the ribs and rode ahead, leaving James staring after.

As it happened, James's first close-up encounter with snow was an unexpectedly playful one, coming from an even more unexpected source.

They were a short distance away from the Army group. The surgeon, spotting what he believed to be unusual markings on the nearby rock formations, had pulled them both aside to investigate.

The markings turned out to be small imprints, shadowy representations of fern leaves, shells, and what appeared to be fish in the stone. At first James thought some talented artist had been here and gone away, and he touched one of the rocks gently as if afraid the paint would still be wet. The surgeon saw him and shook his head.

"I've seen markings like this before. In other places, colder than this." He looked thoughtfully at the rocks, his breath puffing out little clouds in the frigid air. "Leaves. Ferns. Sea creatures. All of them where none should exist." The Roman's own hand reached out and traced the outline of some tiny fish, captured eternally swimming in an ocean of stone. "It is a puzzle," he said softly.

James barely heard him. He had turned away, pressing close to the roan pony, trying to absorb some of the animal warmth. It was therefore a complete surprise when the ball of packed snow hit him with unerring accuracy squarely in the back of the neck, just above the collar of his heavy woollen cloak. The slave yelped and twisted around, his eyes wide and startled. The surgeon, just behind him, looked innocent but there was a glint in those blue orbs that betrayed him.

James gritted his teeth and rubbed the back of his neck, but succeeded only in spreading the cold wetness further. With a sigh, he hitched his cloak further up and gathered it more tightly around him.

"You don't like the snow?" the Roman asked.

The slave thought of many responses, none of which he could safely say. "No, my lord," he said at last.

The surgeon smiled with a genuine humor the slave saw only rarely. "An unsurprising sentiment," he replied. "This is not your mother clime." His expression became thoughtful again. "Luckily, snow is good for more than just throwing at unsuspecting slaves." He turned and hobbled towards his own chestnut mare. "Fetch me a cup!"

James quickly retrieved an enameled clay cup from his saddlebag and watched curiously as the Roman took a small leather-wrapped bundle from his own.

"Snow," the surgeon ordered, and the slave set the cup on a table-like rock as he took up a handful of snow. It burned his palms with the cold and dripped through his fingers.

The Roman held out the cup and James dumped the snow inside. The surgeon unrolled the leather packing to reveal a glass flask, its deep blue tint reflecting the color of his own eyes. He uncorked the small flask and poured a healthy slug of a clear liquid into the cup, where it mixed with the snow and formed a slush.

Re-corking the flask and stowing it some cloak pocket James hadn't even known was there, the Roman picked up the cup and took a small swallow. He smiled, pleased with the result, and offered the cup to the slave.

James hesitated. This was highly unusual -- a Roman offering any food or drink to a slave, from his own hand -- but if there was one thing James was learning rapidly, this was no ordinary Roman. He took the cup.

The mix of liquid and icy snow slid easily down his throat. The taste was like nothing he'd ever experienced -- cold and alcohol-hot at the same time, the spirits diluted from the ice but still potent. Very potent. He choked a little, and the surgeon took the cup from him.

"Good?" he asked, and James nodded. The Roman looked oddly pleased. "Distilled wine, from apples," he said. "Locally made. A fine drink." He took another drink and handed the cup back to the slave.

James could only nod as the cold, fiery liquid burned its way down to his belly, where it seemed to light a steady, comfortable fire.

Much later they sat in the sheltering tent, stomachs full from goat stew and watching a little snow drift down outside. Torchlight flickered and James could feel his eyes beginning to close. It had been a long day.

"You are a Jew," the Roman's voice, abrupt in the twilight.

The slave looked around, carefully. "Yes, my lord."

The surgeon shifted in his seat, stretching out his right leg. He had not eaten all of his stew, and had put much less water in his wine than the slave. _He hurts,_ James realized. _The cold makes his leg ache. I should get him some of the white willow bark._

"You believe in only _one_ god," the Roman said. It was a statement and did not need a reply. James stayed quiet, his mouth dry with sudden fear. This was very dangerous ground. He had noticed early on the surgeon did not have a traditional _Penates_ shrine in his tent for his household gods. They had not spoken of religion since that first day when the Roman had claimed him.

The surgeon tapped the ground with the tip of his staff, still looking out at the falling snow.

"Those creatures in the rocks," he began, and James could not help but blink at the swift turn of subject, "do you think the gods -- or your god -- put them there?"

Silence expanded and filled the tent as James sought desperately for an answer. The Roman watched his face, pinning him with his steady gaze. _It is the wine, and the apple distillation before that. He asks unanswerable questions when he drinks._

"I ... don't know, my lord," the slave said at last. It was the truth, and the only honest answer he could give. The surgeon nodded and looked away.

"Neither do I," he said. "I have seen tracks too, outlined as wolf prints dried in the mud, but of animals the scholars have never seen and in regions denied rain for generations. How did they get there?"

The Roman shook his head at his own question. "If the gods exist --" He stopped. James held his breath. "What if there are no answers? What if it is all a test?" He rubbed at his injured thigh, absently kneading at the remaining muscle.

The Roman turned his gaze upon the slave again. "I do not want this life to be just a test." Blue eyes locked into brown. "You are a slave," the surgeon said unexpectedly. It was the same tone in which he'd announced "_You are a Jew."_

It was another statement of fact, not requiring an answer, but James gave one anyway.

"Yes, my lord," he said, and bowed his head.

"And yet I speak to you as an equal," the Roman murmured. James didn't dare look up. _Because you have no one else to talk to_, he thought. _I know your secret now._

The surgeon looked away, and seemed to give a little nod. He pushed himself slowly out of his chair. "Fetch me some white willow bark. I'm going to bed. You may stay up if you like."

James's second encounter with snow was considerably less benign.

They were higher in the mountains, approaching the pass which would lead them down the other side and into Gaul. The air up here was crisp and cold. It had been snowing steadily for two days and the terrain, hidden by the beautiful white snow, was increasingly treacherous.

Just how treacherous was made clear when James put his left foot down on what seemed to be a perfectly innocent snow hummock, and went crashing down the side of the ravine it had concealed.

The surgeon had wanted fresh goat's blood that morning -- why, the slave still wasn't entirely sure. The Roman had mumbled something about properties and experiments, and had sent James off to bleed a goat. "Just a bit," he'd said, indicating with his thumb and forefinger the amount the slave should draw. "Don't kill it or Longinus will make me replace the damn thing out of _my_ pay." The liquid in question had to be absolutely fresh, and so off James had gone to the small goat herd that accompanied the Army group on its travels.

He had heard the goats before he could see them; their tinkling neck bells carried in the cold air. A strong headache he'd been fighting all morning suddenly worsened, and perhaps he hadn't looked carefully enough before picking his step, or perhaps the ravine had been too well disguised by the snow, but either way the result was the same.

James lay on his back, the wind knocked out of him, looking up into the iron-gray sky. A few crows circled overhead -- eternal camp followers of the avian kind. For a few minutes he was afraid to move. His left knee ached where he'd apparently banged it on a rock on the way down, and his ribs on his right side felt a little strained. His right forearm was trapped under his back, and when he gingerly tried to move it out, his right wrist flared with a bolt of pain that made his stomach turn over and sweat pop from his forehead.

He lay there for a few more minutes, growing progressively colder despite his woollen cloak. It was snowing again, fat wet flakes drifting down like little paper birds._ I have to move_, he thought, _or I may freeze here_. Summoning all his strength, he rolled onto his stomach. His wrist objected strenuously to the movement, sending another stabbing pain up his arm. He forced himself to ignore it and slowly, carefully, used his left arm to push himself to his knees. It was from this position that he puked into the pristine snow.

James knelt, panting like a dog, and after a while used a handful of clean snow to scrub out his mouth. Moving as slowly as before, he got to his feet and stood, swaying. When the nausea passed and the swaying stopped, he started walking.

It was one of the goatherds who saw him first. The boy was sandy-haired, with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, and he'd stared at in alarm at James's stumbling gait. James had tried to speak to him but the boy had taken off running for the camp, and it was shortly after that that the soldiers had come and thrown him face-down over a horse like a sack of meal.

He vaguely remembered the return trip as being a painfully jarring experience. It hadn't been until the surgeon waved an ammonia-soaked rag under his nose that he was fully aware of his surroundings.

He was lying on a cot in the medical tent, warm blankets piled on top of him. His right wrist was splinted and wrapped from palm to mid-forearm; it ached fiercely but the bolts of pain had subsided. The Roman surgeon sat on a stool next to him, a curious expression on his face.

"Did you get the blood?" he asked.

The slave gaped at him, speechless, and the surgeon relented.

"A joke," he said. "You took quite a fall, but you don't appear to have broken anything major. You may have a tiny fracture in your wrist that I can't detect, but even if you do it will heal with time."

He tapped his staff on the ground a few times. "Yes. Well, you should get some more rest now," and he stood as if to go.

The slave struggled with the blankets, trying to throw them off. "Wait," he said, "the tinctures still need compounding today, and --"

The Roman's hand was on his chest, gently pushing the slave back down. "The tinctures can wait. Rest."

The two men looked at each other, and the slave finally looked down.

"Thank you, my lord," he said, softly.

There was a short silence. When the surgeon spoke, his tone was brusque. "Do you know how many leagues we are from the nearest real town? If you had died I couldn't have gotten another slave for weeks -- I would have had to use one of these clod-hopper farm boys the Army recruits straight out of the countryside as an assistant. Now get some rest."

It was an order, and James obeyed.

James liked Gaul. It was warm.

The late-October fields were mixed green and golden, the vineyards lush with ripe grapes. The sun poured down, caressing the land with its gentle warmth. The only snow was on the mountains behind them, retreating into the middle distance as the Cohort advanced onto the Gaulish plains.

The surgeon noticed James smiling.

"Like this place?" he asked.

James nodded. The Roman made a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. "Hold onto that feeling," he said. "The Channel crossings from Portus Itius this time of year can be quite an adventure."

The slave glanced curiously at the surgeon. The Roman's face was unreadable, and James looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. After a moment, though, he straightened and patted the neck of the roan pony. He'd crossed the _Mare Nostrum_ from Judea to Hispania, after all -- a longer sea-journey than the one approaching. How bad could it be?

James wanted to die. If this was the way Britannia greeted all her sea visitors, how much worse would the land be?

He clung to the side of the ship, his guts roiling and clenching. The heavy troop transport bucked and pitched in the storm like an unbroken horse fighting to throw off its rider. He'd heaved over the side until there was nothing left to bring up, but still his body insisted on trying. Sheets of rain lashed the deck as sailors and Marines stumbled about, skating and skidding on the wet wood. Bolts of lightning split the night, and the resulting thunderclaps seemed to shake the heavens. Unbidden, a line by Propertius sprang to mind: The waves have no gods.

The surgeon, of course, seemed to be enjoying it all. He stood on the deck, braced hard against his black oak staff. His face was turned up into the rain, and it coursed down his face like wanton tears. The slave watched him closely, and saw when the Roman's eyes changed, widening in surprise. In the next instant, he was being summoned.

"James! Look at this!"

The slave dragged himself away from shipside and staggered to stand next to the surgeon. The older man put out a hand, steadying himself against James's shoulder, and used his staff to point upwards. "Look," he shouted. James looked, squinting up into the driving rain and wind, and felt his breath stop in his throat.

Fire. _Blue_ fire, dancing around the top of the mast and the ends of the spars, trailing off as a flaming torch leaves a sparkling, dying path behind it. The experienced sailors paid it no mind, but some of the younger crew also stood, transfixed at the sight.

"Corpusants," the Roman said. "I've made many crossings, but never seen them till now."

James's sickness was forgotten as he and the surgeon stood, united in silent awe, watching the blue lightning burn without visible diminishment.

"If only I could capture such matter -- in a jar or flask ..." the Roman was thinking out loud, and for a moment James was terrified that the surgeon would send him scrambling up the storm-wracked mast on just such a task. Judging from the other man's speculative look, the Roman had been considering exactly that. The surgeon glanced up again, and the slave allowed himself a sigh of relief.

The eerie blue fire continued to flicker, keeping its essential nature a secret. The Roman turned away, and only James heard him say, "So many puzzles -- too many for one life."

Britain was still wet. And gray, and cold, but mostly wet. It had been like this all the way from the coast, and from Londinium to the encampment.

James's head still hurt, but at least the medical tent was finally up. The rain was tapering off and the surgeon, relieved, had taken off his helmet. James would've liked nothing more than to stoke up the firepots and dry off; the Roman, of course, had other ideas. He'd seen what looked like a new variety of thistle off the trail, and there was no time like the present to go back and look for it.

James had briefly attempted to dissuade him. "My lord, the centurion Longinus warned of brigands --"

The Roman had snorted in derision. "Longinus worries too much. There are no brigands within ten leagues of here." And off they had gone.

Both men were still on their hands and knees, noses a fingers-breadth from the ground, when the Roman said, "Well, isn't this an awkward situation?" His voice was dry and toneless, and James looked up from his own attempt at trying to discern the leaf-pattern on the tiny green plant. It was only then that he saw the source of the surgeon's observation, and the sudden fear that washed over him took his breath away.

The five Britons on horseback were watching them, seemingly amused at the sight of the two men on the ground. They were bundled in furs and mismatched pieces of Roman and native armor, and they were heavily armed. James had no idea how they'd managed to get so close, but here they were.

The surgeon sat back on his heels slowly, carefully favoring his right leg, and rested against the trunk of the oak beside him. He laid his staff across his lap, stretched both legs out in the wet grass and patted the ground, motioning James to sit next to him.

The brigands laughed, and one of them said something in a harsh, guttural dialect. James understood none of it, but a glance at the surgeon's narrowed eyes told him _he_ did. The slave looked casually towards their horses, but the chestnut mare and roan pony were too far away.

Knowing their prey was well-snared, the five raiders began to talk amongst themselves.

"Take a good look at them, James," the Roman said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The last proud remnants of Queen Boudica's army that stood against us at Manduessedum." His eyes were fixed on their captors.

"What happened at Manduessedum?" James whispered back.

"We slaughtered them," the Roman replied. "And then we killed their women. And children." His eyes turned towards James. "Even their pack animals. It was a bloody day."

James tried to swallow. "What are they talking about?"

The surgeon squinted a bit, concentrating. "Whether to hold me for ransom or kill me now," he said. He seemed remarkably unconcerned, and James stared at him. "They'll probably offer you your freedom," he continued, "but it will be a lie. They can make more money taking and reselling you to some merchant." The Roman rubbed gently at this thigh. "It remains to be seen if I'm worth the trouble to keep alive."

James felt the cold eyes of the leader on him, and decided to stare back. _Trapped_, he thought._ Might as well die as the free man I was born._

The brigand leader used his unsheathed sword to point at the iron cuff on James's left wrist, and said something. James heard the surgeon give a soft sigh next to him. "Come here, slave," the renegade leader said, in horribly accented Latin. "We won't hurt you."

James stayed where he was, and the brigand frowned.

"I said _come here_," he snarled, and one of the other men lowered his sharp-bladed lance until the spear point hovered in front of James's chest.

"Go, James," the Roman said softly. "No sense in both of us dying here today."

The slave looked into the surgeon's eyes. There was an unexpected gentleness there, and the older man nodded once.

James rose to his feet, trying to keep his knees from shaking, and walked unsteadily towards the brigand chief until he was standing next to the man's horse. This close, the stink of unwashed bodies filled his nostrils, and he tried not to gag.

The Briton reversed his sword, holding it out so James could take it by the hilt. He looked up in surprise, and the brigand pushed the sword pommel closer. "Take," he said, and motioned towards the surgeon still sitting against the tree. "You are a slave. Kill him. Take your freedom."

James was still staring at the naked blade in front of him. Something hard and sharp pressed at the back of his neck. _If I don't take the sword, they'll kill me and then the Roman_, he thought. He took the sword.

It was heavy and solid in his hands, the leather-wrapped hilt nestling into his palm as if coming home. He turned back towards the surgeon, who watched him approach. Dimly, James could hear the five raiders laughing. He and the Roman stared at each other.

"James," the surgeon said finally. His voice was soft and steady, with no fear behind it. "You have been a good servant, and a better companion. I wish we had met under different circumstances." He tilted his head back, baring his throat. "Make it quick," he said.

James stood, frozen. He could feel last season's knobbly acorns through his sandals, hear the laughter behind him grow in volume. On the breeze, he caught the rank odor of their captors again as kept his eyes fixed on the Roman.

_I probably would've been dead by now if the surgeon hadn't claimed me. Beaten to death in a drunken rage by my former master. He took me and my life changed. _The Roman had been civilization again after so much time in darkness. He thought of the medical texts, the idle conversations and musings, the slowly growing trust, the beginning ...

_A slave, yet you remain true to your medical oath, as if it mattered now.  
You can read, can't you?  
I told him not to hurt you .  
As long as you keep moving, you're alive.  
Teach me to count to ten ... in Aramaic._

His head was filled with a buzzing sound that only seemed to get louder with every passing second. _Teach me to count to ten ... in Aramaic. Teach me ..._

"James." The Roman's rough voice pierced the buzzing. "Do not torture me. Do it."

_Even if the surgeon is wrong and these Britons do give me my freedom, what life would I have here? I would be always on the run, and I do not speak their language ... There is no life for me without him._

James blinked, taking a deep breath. "I am sorry, Gregorius," he whispered, the surgeon's name strange on his tongue.

He turned away from the Roman, and in one swift, violent motion, plunged the sword into the soft earth. His legs gave way under him, and he sat down, hard.

He looked up at the brigand chief. "I will not do this thing."

The surgeon was breathing hard behind him. The Briton leader was staring at him. James was wondering exactly what he'd done and feeling very sick. The sword was still stuck in the ground in front of him.

"You are a fool," the brigand chief said at last.

"I'll agree with that," James heard the Roman's soft mumble.

There was a shout in the distance, and the raiders' heads snapped around, and then they were kicking their horses into a gallop, running flat out for the cover of the forest. A squadron of Roman cavalry was riding hard towards the two men.

It was a nice change, James reflected, not to be on the receiving end of the kind of tongue-lashing the surgeon had gotten. Longinus had been furious, and had actually forbidden the Roman to set foot outside the camp for the next week. There had been a lot more shouting than that, but the slave had missed some of it when Longinus lost his breath and was reduced to red-faced spluttering. He'd finally stomped off, still muttering angrily to himself.

As the centurion strode away, the surgeon turned towards James. "Well," he said. "At least one good thing came of this." He reached into a tunic pocket and pulled out a wilted green stalk. It was the thistle they'd gone looking for.

James lay staring up at the tent ceiling. The Roman had been asleep for hours -- James could hear his soft, regular breathing. An owl called from somewhere nearby, and James sat up. Throwing off his blankets, he stood up and made his way to the surgeon's cot.

One of the tent flaps was still partly open, and the light from the full moon streamed in, illuminating the corner where the Roman lay. James looked down at him. The surgeon's face was relaxed in sleep, the ever-present beard stubble providing a natural shadow to the line of his jaw.

_I chose slavery today,_ James thought. _Regardless of what you said, I may have had a chance at freedom and I chose ... slavery_. His hands clenched at his sides and he brought them, shaking, to his forehead. The iron cuff on his left wrist touched his cheek. It was cold.

"James?" The surgeon was half-awake, murmuring sleepily. "What's wrong?"

The slave quickly dropped his fists, forcing himself to take a deep breath. "Nothing, my lord," he answered softly. "I thought I heard you call out."

"Mmmmm," the Roman mumbled. "Go back to bed." He shifted a little in his cot and looked up at James. He was more awake now. "It was a trying day -- for both of us."

The slave nodded, and turned back towards his rough nest of blankets.

"James," the surgeon said. "Thank you."

James stopped, and faced the surgeon again. "You're welcome ... Gregorius," he whispered, but the Roman had turned on his side and was already sliding into sleep.

James looked at him for a moment longer, then started again for his makeshift bed.

_For well or for ill_, he thought, _our fates seem to be bound together. I wonder what the future will bring._

(Not) The End

_Time carries all things; length of days knows how to change name and shape and nature and fortune._  
-- Plato


End file.
